Love. Right. Emma hardly even knew the guy. He whisked the tarp over it hastily, one-handed, and followed Roman into the kitchen. It was indeed noon somewhere. And maybe a drink would calm him down enough to come up with the forgettable toast he was responsible for making.
“Here you go.” Roman shoved a measuring cup into Lee’s hands and dumped in a good slosh of vodka. He might have worked countless weddings, but clearly not behind the bar, given the generosity of his serving. He hauled open the door of an industrial fridge. “Bingo. Lemon juice. A dash of that, a packet of sugar, and you’ve got yourself a vodka sour. Not a particularly good vodka sour, at least by Boomer standards. But a drink’s a drink.”
Lee dropped in his ice hunk. “What do you mean, Boomer standards?”
“Booze falls into the 500% markup bracket. It’s all bathtub gin where I live. So, this?” Roman hoisted the bottle and took a long, deep drink. “This sparkles across my palate like the newly driven snow, glittering in the sunrise of a crisp December morning.”
While Roman tipped back another swallow, Lee felt a pang. Not just apprehension or worry, but guilt. He took a tentative sip from his measuring cup and wondered if he tasted winter too, or if he only wished he could.
Roman didn’t notice Lee’s introspective mood shift—or maybe he just thought he was still fretting about his speech. Which he was. But not nearly as urgently as before. “So what about the wedding itself?” Roman asked. “I’ve got the details in writing, right down to which way the centerpieces are supposed to face. But the big question is: to clink, or not to clink.”
“Clink what?”
“Spoons on glasses.”
“People don’t really do that.”
Roman smirked. “They must. Otherwise you wouldn’t know what I meant.”
How did Lee know? He’d never been in a wedding crowd gauche enough to expect the newlyweds to kiss at the reception, right there in front of everyone—especially not on command. Must’ve been the remnants of an old, forgotten movie…or a horror story passed around the campfire. “We’d never do that to Emma. Bad enough it’ll happen at the altar.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be a stick in the mud.” Roman grabbed a serving spoon off a hook and started rapping it on the stainless steel table. “Kiss…kiss…kiss….”
“Tell me that doesn’t happen at your District weddings.”
“Not only does it happen—it’s the highlight of the evening.”
Lee felt himself blushing from the pit of his belly to the tips of his ears. And he’d only had a single sip of vodka. “Some stranger’s mouth mashing against yours. Their spit. Their tongue. Their breath.” He shuddered vigorously. “Can you imagine?”
Roman dropped the spoon and gazed down into the vodka bottle with an enigmatic half-smile. “I can.” He glanced up coyly and said, “You want to ask me about it? Go ahead. I don’t mind. Maybe it’ll even take some of the sting off seeing some Howard guy’s lips coming at your kid sister.”
Lee gawked.
“Oh, come on,” Roman said. “You’re no virgin. I know for a fact that sex ed is mandatory in your schools.”
“It’s not required in the District?”
“Heck, no. It’s an elective. I took advanced business math instead. Why bother paying for something you can get for free?”
Where? Lee almost blurted out the question, but before he made even more of an idiot out of himself, throngs of people roiling around the Bonfires sprang to mind. Maybe not everybody was dancing or fighting. And they might not even be married. The sudden urge to see the Taxable District by the red, flickering light was strong, though of course Lee would never dream of venturing across Main Street after dark, even with an escort. He was too soft. Too middle-class. He’d probably find himself face-down in the gutter with his wallet and his shoes missing before the first band even finished their set.
His eyes met Roman’s. The caterer wasn’t really smiling anymore. And he was watching Lee with a disturbing intensity. “Teacher showed you how to assume the position,” Roman said, “and how to keep your little swimmers healthy by clearing out the pipes—but she never kissed you.”
“No.” Lee’s mouth formed the word, though nothing managed to come out. After a few deep breaths, he found his voice and said, “So that’s not how it is, in the District?”
“Sex ed? Only for the families who think that if they scrimp and save, if they submit the right application and bribe the right bureaucrat, they’ll shoehorn their way into the Benefit Sector. They make their kids take all those useless Boomer courses, hoping they’ll eventually fit in. The rest of us know better than to bother trying. Especially people like me who work outside the District. I see how things really are around here. Cheaper? Safer? Cleaner? No doubt. But the payoff? Everybody’s miserable.”
Funny. Lee had never thought of himself as miserable. Why did the word feel so apt?
“I imagine kissing someone wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if you didn’t have any choice in the matter,” Roman said.
Lee had always done his best not to imagine kissing anyone at all. Aside from all the microbes and contaminants—which, admittedly, he knew from his three years of Plague Theory were basically harmless on the average North American mouth—there was the sheer intimacy of the act to contend with. In front of dozens, maybe hundreds, of your family’s most important acquaintances. Which Emma would soon be doing. In this very hall. Before the weekend was over.
“Last night,” Lee whispered, “I heard my sister crying. Right through the wall. Muffled, like maybe she was face-down on her pillow. But it was late, everything else was totally quiet. And I heard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Lee asked. “You didn’t write the Algorithm.”
Roman rounded the table, took the measuring cup from Lee’s hand, gave the contents a sniff, then handed it back to Lee. “Look, it’s not the end of the world. She’ll adapt.”
“But that’s not how things should be. This is supposed to be about happiness. For real. Not just some empty fucking greeting.”
Roman raised his eyebrows high. “The swearing sounds especially filthy when one of you Boomers finally lets loose.”
“Fuck you.” Lee tilted back his measuring cup and tossed back the vodka in one long, satisfying gulp.
“Now you’re just showing off.”
Lee reached for the vodka. Roman didn’t resist, exactly, but he didn’t release it either. Instead, he let Lee pull him close along with the bottle, until they were right up against each other. The only liberty he took was to tip in an extra few ounces when Lee poured another drink. “Seriously, though,” Roman said. “All the Boomer etiquette of who gets to do what in bed, and when, to whom, how long, and even what position…it’s only a matter of time before your population goes into a total tailspin.” Instead of drawing back once he’d had his say, Roman lingered there, startlingly close, and gazed deep into Lee’s eyes. “Maybe married life will suit your sister.” Roman leaned in even closer. Or maybe it was Lee. “I’ve heard all about your sex ed, and trust me. It’s nothing like the real deal.”
Whoever it was that closed the gap between them, Lee didn’t know. Maybe they were both to blame. Thighs touched. Then chests. Then lips. Roman’s mouth blazed with heat, but it tasted like winter. Or maybe just vodka, but Lee was too stunned to dwell on such mundane details. The thought that he had no idea what he was doing, none whatsoever, was blaring through his mind like a pathogen alert. Lee did not simply do something. He read about the topic first, streamed some instructional video. He quizzed his professors about the subject and engaged in some mental rehearsal.
But there was no preparing for this first kiss—especially given how scrupulously Lee had avoided the altar.
The sensation was nothing like he’d expected. It tingled, and not just the vodka. The wetness that Lee thought he’d find revolting was intriguingly slick. And the gust of vaporous, compound-laden breath he’d been braced against was onl
y a tantalizing whisper.
Lee didn’t return the breath. Not because the thought of exhaling against someone’s lips terrified him—though it did—but because he’d forgotten how to work his own lungs. He had no idea what to do with his mouth either, or his face, or his entire body, and yet it seemed that Roman was able to coax his lips apart. The touch of Roman’s tongue was such a shock, Lee’s breathing ability returned in a great gasp, embarrassingly loud, so mortifying he had to turn away and knuckle the wetness from his lips in shame.
Roman eased back, looking nearly as stunned as Lee felt, eyes wide, lips parted. His open expression was at odds with the angularity of his body, which looked like it had been built only for decisiveness and action, not the contemplation of the deeper meaning of sex, and kissing, and life. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to your parents.”
“No. Of course I—no.”
“I can’t get fired. Two-day job, weekend rate, overtime—I need this gig. Rent’s coming due.”
“I’d never do that.”
Even if Lee did say something, who would believe him?
CHAPTER THREE
INITIALLY, LEE WAS concerned that someone might notice his silence at the rehearsal dinner at a time when he was expected to be intelligent, friendly and charming—though not too intelligent, in case his future in-laws would find him arrogant. Not so friendly as to appear crass. And certainly not charming enough to seem glib. But Howard’s father dominated the conversation to the point where Lee couldn’t have gotten a word in if he tried.
It was probably a blessing, since Lee felt neither intelligent, nor friendly, nor charming. Mostly, he felt confused.
When the tuxedoed waiters streamed from the kitchen, Lee’s confusion intensified. Because obviously Roman was still back in the banquet hall setting up for tomorrow’s festivities. But as the waitstaff trooped out to the table with every course, one dedicated waiter per person, Lee couldn’t help but scrutinize each one to ensure he wasn’t the man whose mouth tasted like winter.
But, no. They wouldn’t be. Not only because Roman was still arranging place settings and curling streamers in the banquet hall, but because none of the waiters were District boys like Roman. They were more like Lee, college kids who worked a few hours a week, Boomers with straight white teeth and pale, elegantly tapered fingers. Probably. The supposition that they lacked calluses and hangnails was pure speculation on Lee’s part, since their hands were all covered by spotless gloves, but he knew enough Boomers to field an educated guess.
Lee’s waiter was nothing like Roman. He might even be the antithesis of Roman. Butter-colored hair, eyes as blue-gray as the veining of a fine Roquefort, skin like homogenized milk. The poor waiter looked so manicured and pampered, if he encountered Roman in a dark alleyway, he’d probably curdle.
He placed a covered dish in front of Lee, and with half an eye on the waiter beside him, lifted the dome, in tandem, with a quiet flourish.
Splayed on a ruffled green bed was a minuscule chicken—plucked naked, legs spread, cavity gaping.
“Wild squab,” Howard’s father announced with a satisfaction that hinted it was the priciest thing on the menu. “Nothing’s too good for the newest member of our family.”
Lee couldn’t say whether Emma had any reaction to the bragging. He couldn’t see her from the far end of the table where he was seated across from his future sister-in-law, a bored teenager in braces. He took a furtive glance at the teenager to see what she made of the squab, but she’d taken no notice of the provocative bird. Her gaze was fixed on the fiber-optic centerpiece that was undulating with subtle shades of turquoise and coral—which were most definitely not the wedding colors.
Across the table and two seats down from Lee, his mother caught his eye and indicated with a meaningful glance the way she held her fork. Lee dutifully located the corresponding fork in his overcrowded place setting and hefted it, all the while wondering if anyone else found their entree disturbingly obscene. How could they not? They’d all been through sex ed, even the girl in braces. Some of them were even married, so they potentially had intercourse just for the fun of it…as difficult as that might be to imagine. Maybe they were so busy figuring out which fork to use that they didn’t notice the nudity of the taut, golden skin, or the suggestive cant of the squab’s bent knees.
Or maybe it was just that they didn’t have the ghost of a recent kiss lingering on their lips.
Silver rang on fine china as the dinner guests began dismantling their birds. Lee had difficulty choosing an entry point. The thigh joint seemed like an obvious place, but as he set his knife against it, eleventh-grade images of Ms. Carmichael flooded his mind—waxed, spread, gleaming with lubricant, benignly helpful and vaguely preoccupied. He’d dutifully slid his hands down her torso, pausing when his thumbs met the crook of her thighs, startled by the hardness of the ligament that ran from groin to hip like a length of industrial cable. If Lee had been with a lover, he would have paused to trace the line of it and see where it led, how it was connected, and whether it tickled when he grazed it with his fingertips. But school was school. Ms. Carmichael had instructed him to spread her labia, and so he did.
The squab’s legs gaped.
Lee wondered how egregious the breach of etiquette would be to rotate his plate so the bird’s breast faced him instead. He settled for nudging the cavity to five o’clock, and poked the skin a few more times. The teenager across from him tore open a thigh and emitted a disgusted huff. “My chicken is raw.”
“Squab,” her father corrected. “It’s supposed to be pink.”
If Lee hadn’t been distracted by his flood of memories, both new and old, he might have figured out a way around cutting open the squab. He could come up with some excuse. Dehydration. Nerves. But even as his knife sank into the flesh, even as the crisped skin parted to reveal the glistening, ruby-tinged muscle beneath, all he could manage was to swallow the dread that by this time tomorrow, Emma and Howard would be finally, irrevocably married.
* * *
“That man.” Lee’s mother put the car in gear and headed toward the stream. The lurching, disconnected feel of the short manual drive from the restaurant to the highway made Lee burp up creme brûlée. It had tasted better the first time around.
“Could you at least wait until we’re locked in before you start complaining about them?” Emma suggested.
“Not all of them,” Mom said. “Just the father—brag, brag, brag. The rest of the family seemed fine.”
“Mom,” Emma said firmly, “the road.”
Mom pressed her lips together and drove with exaggerated care. Dad hummed to himself as he stared out the window and watched the scenery crawl by. It wasn’t that he’d developed a particular knack for tuning out arguments. More like he didn’t even notice them.
As the car approached the on-ramp, manual steering clicked off and the Algorithm took over. A progress bar lit the dash. When Lee was young, very young, before Emma was even born, they’d had a different car. He could still picture it vividly, the body shiny red with tiny flecks of silver, chrome flaking at the handles and rear bumper. Instead of a progress bar, that dashboard had displayed an estimated wait time. Modern cars no longer showed specific times, since wellness psychologists had determined a plain progress bar was less distressing. Maybe, for some people, it was—people like Lee’s father, who were basically content. But even from the backseat, Lee could tell his mother was running through calculations in her mind, attempting to determine exactly how long it would take the Algorithm to pull them into traffic.
“Howard’s mother seemed nice enough,” Mom said.
It was a conciliatory attempt. Even so, Emma snapped back, “Until she chipped her tooth on a piece of buckshot.”
“Good thing we went with the chicken for the wedding,” Dad declared with the full force of his optimism.
Mom focused on the progress bar.
Emma glared out the window.
Lee wonder
ed if it was possible his father hadn’t realized that a single pink-meated, buckshot-peppered, gape-cavitied squab probably cost more than a freezer-load of ordinary chicken. Had the point somehow sailed entirely over his head that not only had the groom’s family upstaged the wedding with the elaborate rehearsal dinner, but they’d basked in the satisfaction?
The progress bar dwindled, faster now as the Algorithm’s calculations sped, and soon the car clicked onto the highway to begin its smooth glide toward home. It had been years, maybe decades, since an accident occurred on a highway, so usually once Lee felt that click, he’d allow his stomach to unclench. But not tonight. The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with one of the innumerable silver knives pointing every which way in the world’s most ostentatious place setting. Everyone was on edge. Everyone but Dad, who had resumed his tuneless humming.
Lee let his hand drop to the seat beside his sister’s so the edges of their pinkies brushed together. It was a light touch, but so much more. A reminder of the most solemn promises they’d made—and kept—through the course of their lives. Don’t tell Mom and Dad I broke the tail off the ceramic rooster jar. Don’t tell them I wet the bed…again. Don’t tell them I called Ms. Murray a bitch (she deserved it). Don’t tell them I punched that little creep Eddie Marone and made him cry (he really deserved it). Don’t tell, ever. Promise me. Pinky swear.
By the time they started creeping into the Taxable District to spend their Saturday mornings at the second-hand bookstore, the pinky swear was unnecessary. Childish. And besides, they both shared the guilt, so they were equally invested in keeping their explorations to themselves.
All those secrets, all those years. All of it came flooding back to Lee. Emma could tell him what she was thinking about the rehearsal…about Howard, though she hadn’t yet said a word about what she truly thought. His gentle probings were met with vague reassurance. The Algorithm said they were a perfect match, so what’s the big deal? Nothing to worry about. Everyone got married, and everyone married their Algorithm pick. No use stressing out over it.
Imperfect Match Page 2